


heavy handed

by theMightyPen



Series: nothing in the world so well as you [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Also can be read as Gimli/Legolas if you squint, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Meddling So Much Meddling, Post-Canon, The Couple that Trolls Together Stays Together, squint away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-16 02:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: Or, four times Aragorn and Arwen meddled in the lives of denizens of Middle Earth, and one time they didn’t have to





	heavy handed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to my dear Niamh, whose only request was "write something where Aragorn and Arwen are the trolliest people in Middle Earth." 
> 
> Thus, this fic was born.

* * *

  ** **I. Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of the Woodland Realm, & Gimli, son of Gloin, Lord of the Glittering Caves****

* * *

 

Aragorn would have thought they’d be past this, now.

The War is over, with many miles travelled together, countless battles fought side by side, nights spent talking of friends and loved one beside their tiny fire. Boon companions, he knows them to be, but there they sit, refusing to acknowledge each other at all.

He supposes the presence of their fathers, eyeing each other with barely-concealed contempt, has caused this sudden rift between them.

Arwen’s hand is gentle on his elbow and he turns to meet his wife’s gaze.

“Perhaps it was not the wisest course of action to invite both Thranduil and Gloin to Minas Tirith at the same time,” she murmurs, low enough that only he hears it.

“I could hardly invite one and not the other,” is his exasperated response. “Those two are as proud as they come.”

“And likely equally displeased about their respective son’s dearest companion,” Arwen says.

The rift caused by Smaug--and the near ruination of the line of Durin--is an old wound, and a deep one. It is unsurprising that Gloin still feels ill-will toward Thranduil, and that Thranduil in turn feels slighted by the Dwarf’s grudge.

(Personally, Aragorn thinks the pair of them are acting like overgrown children, but as a king of scarcely a few months, this is not something he can say out loud.)

“Gimli,” Arwen says suddenly, startling him out  of his thoughts, “I do not believe you ever told me the final tally of your competition with Legolas.”

Every head at the long table swivels in his Queen’s direction. Faramir--the poor soul who’d been chosen to serve as a buffer between the Elf King and the Dwarf Lord--looks openly relieved before schooling his face into a more passive expression.

Gimli blinks in surprise. “Did I not, my lady?”

Arwen shakes her head, looking deceptively innocent.

Valar, how Aragorn loves her.

“It was a close thing,” he says, ignoring Thranduil’s disdainful snort, “but I must report it ended in a tie.”

Aragorn can feel his eyebrows rise. The sudden jab of Arwen’s elbow against his ribs forces him to adopt a more neutral expression.

“Only because the princeling cheated, eh, Gimli?” Chortles Gloin, earning glares from the representatives from Mirkwood, and gasps from Minas Tirith’s nobles.

“I would be wary of accusing my son of cheating,” Thranduil drawls, sounding bored but looking anything but. “For I doubt axes have the same kind of...effectiveness as arrows. There could not have been a tie, as _your_ son claims.”

“You do Gimli wrong,” Legolas says angrily. “He is a fearsome warrior, and did more with his two axes than what many of our kinsman could do with a thousand arrows.”

“And Legolas would have no need to cheat,” Gimli adds, glaring fiercely at his father. “For the only thing greater than his skill with a bow is his honor.”

Aragorn has the distinct pleasure of watching Thranduil and Gloin’s faces twitch as they eye their sons, and then each other.

“I am glad to hear that you two are as well-matched in battle as you are in peace,” says Arwen, smiling radiantly at all of them. “Such a friendship between a Dwarf and Elf is something to be celebrated.”

Her voice brooks no argument, and even Thranduil, with centuries of ruling under his belt, and Gloin, for all his Durin’s blood, dare not argue with the Queen of Gondor, the Evenstar.

“Aye, it should be,” agrees Gimli, reaching out a hand in Legolas’s direction.

Legolas smirks, clasping his friend’s arm, ignoring their fathers’ increased looks of discomfort. They quickly dissolve into their usual banter--Faramir looks more grateful than ever at the dissipating tension between the two parties--and Aragorn cannot help but raise a glass in his Steward’s direction when he finally succeeds in drawing polite words out of both Thranduil and Gloin.

“You are a wonder,” Aragorn murmurs, leaning over to drop a discreet kiss to Arwen’s shoulder.

She offers him a private smile. “If I could manage Elladan and Elrohir’s mischief for two thousand years, I can certainly handle Thranduil and Gloin.”

“Queen Arwen, the mediator,” he teases.

“King Elessar, the instigator,” she answers. “Do not think I do not see your hand in poor Faramir’s seating arrangements.”

Aragorn shrugs. “I think him every bit as capable of handling those two as you, _a'maelamin_.”

“Meddler,” she says.

“We are as well-matched as Gimli and Legolas, then,” he says, deciding to forgo proprietary to kiss her properly.

Her laughter tastes as sweet as ever.

 

* * *

  **II. Faramir, Steward to the King of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien**

* * *

 

Faramir is a good man. A kind man, a brave man. The quality of which Arwen has seen only a few times, even over the course of her long years.

Faramir is also a young man, a man in love for the first time.

War is not kind to love--war is not kind to anything--and so she supposes he had not let himself feel it, before now, besides a brother’s love for Boromir, a son’s love for Denethor. It explains the lovelorn looks, his obvious happiness when he is in the White Lady’s presence.

It also explains the look of utter panic that crosses his face when Aragorn introduces him to Eomer King.

(“I do not understand it,” Aragorn had said, later that evening. “They are both my friends, similar in terms of valor and honor. Men I consider brothers! Why is Faramir so wary of Eomer?”

“Try to remember the first time you spoke to Elladan and Elrohir after you had kissed me, _melamin_.”

“Ah.”)

Eomer, Arwen knows less of, but she doubts any man that Aragorn holds in such high regard could be anything less than good. It is clear he loves his sister, and clearer still that he would give his right arm to see her happy.

And yet a week passes, and no betrothal between the Steward of Gondor and the White Lady of Rohan is announced. A week is not so very long, in the grand scheme of things--no doubt her family would consider it little more than the blink of an eye--but for Men, life is shorter, sweeter. More painful too, as any such waiting for people as in love as Eowyn and Faramir are must be.

Arwen knows a good deal about waiting.  

Aragorn merely raises an eyebrow when she declares her intention to ask Faramir for the first dance of the evening. “You realize I can scarcely dance with the King of Rohan, do you not?”

“I am sure there are other places the two of you can converse besides the dance floor,” she answers, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Though no doubt that would be an enjoyable sight for many present.”

Faramir sweeps into a flawless bow when she asks him, sparing an apologetic look for Eowyn over her shoulder. The White Lady looks more than a little irritated, at least until Merry and Pippin appear, spinning her around in a cheerful dance.

“I am sorry to keep you from your lady, Faramir,” Arwen says.

The blush that heats Faramir’s cheeks is both telling and endearing. “She is not mine to claim, my lady.”

“Oh?” Arwen asks, feigning ignorance. “Has her brother forbidden it?”

“No,” he admits. “I have not--we have not--made him aware of our affections.”

“I see,” she murmurs. “You fear he will object.”

“I would not blame him if he did. It...it has been so sudden.”

“Do you doubt what you feel?”

He shakes his head vehemently. “No, not in the slightest. Nor do I doubt Eowyn. But...my lady, I think of my cousin--if she claimed to love a man she had only known for a month’s span, or that he loved her, I would worry for her.”

(Arwen thinks this is not the best time to mention said cousin--young, quick-witted, and altogether lovely Lothiriel of Dol Amroth--has been looking at the King of Rohan with more and more interest throughout the various feasts and celebrations. That is another matter, for another time.)

“Perhaps you should tell Eomer King just that,” Arwen offers. “Love is not entirely different from battle, after all, and you are a master tactician. Head off his doubts before he can present them. Know that his concerns are not likely to be about you, Faramir of Gondor, but _for_ his sister. I have been informed by my own brothers that all they have ever wanted for me in a husband is someone who makes me truly happy. I suspect it is much the same for him.”  

Faramir blinks at her--they’ve stopped dancing, she realizes, and has to suppress a grin when she sees Aragorn shaking his head at her from across the hall. Abruptly, he begins to laugh. “Oh, you and Aragorn _are_ well-matched.”

Arwen smiles. “I am sure I do not know what you mean."

Still chuckling, he bows over her hands before escorting her--rather forcefully, but she cannot bring herself to mind--to where Aragorn and Eomer stand watching them with obvious amusement.

“Here is your beautiful bride, my king,” Faramir says, “and may she always offer you as sound advice as she has just offered me.”

“I suspect she shall,” Aragorn agrees, lifting her hand to kiss its back.

“Eomer King, may I have a word?”

Eomer’s eyebrow arches in obvious surprise, but he offers no objection. The two men stride off, leaving Arwen and Aragorn alone.

“I trust your interference was successful?” Aragorn asks.

“That remains to be seen,” Arwen answers, though both of them keep their eyes on where the pair is conversing. Eomer’s eyebrows have only climbed higher, and poor Faramir is nearly rose-colored, but his shoulders are squared, face determined.

Arwen can only smile when the betrothal between Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, is announced the next morning.

“Is this going to become a habit of yours, _a'maelamin_?” Aragorn asks, after they have wished the happy couple joy.

“A Queen must find some way to occupy herself,” she says serenely. “And what better way than to offer my aid to those who need it?”

 

* * *

**III. Meriadoc Brandybuck, Esquire of Rohan, & Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel**

* * *

 

Merry and Pippin do not mean to be menaces.

Aragorn suspects it simply comes naturally to them.

As it is, good-humored or not, they _are_ menaces. They have only been in Edoras for a week, and already they have somehow managed to eat nearly a month’s supply of food, break a very valuable (and old, dating from Eorl the First’s reign) vase, and manage to send any and all serving girls running just by appearing in a room.

“Eowyn is too fond of Merry to say anything,” Arwen says, brushing out her hair beside the fire. “And she knows of Faramir’s own fondness for Pippin, and thus does not say anything to him either.”

“Someone must,” Aragorn groans. “Else Eomer might fling them from the steps of Meduseld before he can be crowned, and then Rohan’s King will be put on trial for murder.”

A solution presents itself after a subtle hint from Gandalf: “I do not have the clearest memories of the Fellowship’s journey,” he says in a tone that does not sound _entirely_ truthful, “but I do remember Masters Took and Brandybuck being too tired for mischief after a long walk minus second breakfast.”

So, Aragorn decides it must fall to him to wear them out, as he does not trust Eomer to not abandon them to the wilderness so that he might have a few hours of peace, nor Gimli not to be persuaded to provide them with the seven meals Hobbits usually require, nor Legolas not to be secretly enjoying all of the trouble they’re causing.

Pippin seems excited at the prospect of seeing more of Rohan, whereas Merry, who has spent a significant span of time in the country already, seems skeptical.

“Are Frodo and Sam not joining us?” Merry asks, as he checks his pockets one last time for his pipeweed. “They have seen the least of the Mark, after all.”

 _Frodo and Sam are not the ones turning Meduseld on its head_ , Aragorn thinks.

“I do not think Frodo has rested enough after our journey from Minas Tirith yet,” a truth, and a sad one. Of all of them, Frodo has suffered the most. Aragorn suspects he will never be the same Hobbit that set out from Bag End, or even the same Hobbit that had said, with such selfless bravery: _I will take it! I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though I do not know the way._

“Sam’s too enamored with the Mark’s kitchens to come along,” Pippin chirps, drawing him out of his sad train of thought. “I think he loves them almost as much as he loves Rosie Cotton!”

Merry snorts. “I don’t think that much love exists, Pip.”

Aragorn almost feels guilty, for Merry and Pippin have suffered as well, and still remain so cheerful. So _young_.

But then Pippin asks a “completely rhetorical” question about what Eomer’s reaction would be to learn they’d burnt a hole in the corner of one of the tapestries in his and Merry’s room, and Aragorn decides that wearing them out is a small price to pay for keeping the Hobbits alive until they depart Edoras.

The first mile, or so, is pleasant for all: the sun is shining, the air warm, and the plains of Rohan beautiful.

After the second mile, Pippin begins to hint about being hungry.

After the third, he’s stopped hinting, and makes claims that his stomach is devouring itself.

Aragorn hides a grin behind his hand at the younger Hobbit. Merry, however, is not so dramatic, nor, he thinks, blind to what this walk actually is.

After flinging an apple at a still moaning Pippin’s head, Merry gives him a look. “Have we done something to upset you, Aragorn?”

“Not me,” is his quick response, “but I am afraid your...antics are causing a number of people in Meduseld no small amount of irritation.”

Merry frowns, clearly surprised, but Pippin barks a laugh. “We were only trying to lighten the mood, weren’t we, Merry? It worked well enough before!”

Aragorn can admit the truth of what he says: it had worked, after Helm’s Deep. Their singing, dancing on tables--they’d been great favorites with a number of Riders, not to mention Theoden himself.

But many of those Riders are gone now, along with their King, and while the War is over, the Ring destroyed...its wounds linger, even with Eomer’s coronation swiftly approaching.

“But it’s not working now, Pip,” says Merry. “Should...do we need to apologize, Aragorn? To Eomer, or Eowyn?”

Aragorn shakes his head, clapping a hand to one of each of their shoulders. “No. They love you dearly. But much has changed for them, in the past months, and their responsibilities weigh more heavily on them now.”

“As yours do on you,” Pippin adds, surprising him with his insightfulness. “I am sorry, Aragorn. We did not think.”  

“Your good humors are nothing to be sorry for,” he assures them. “Your clumsiness with Rohirric heirlooms, on the other hand…”

They squawk in mock-outrage, and abruptly Aragorn finds his feet being yanked out from under him, much like they had  been during one of the first weeks of travelling with the Fellowship. From flat on his back, it feels as if no time at all has passed. It is almost if he were to lift his head, Gandalf would be sitting there, puffing away on his pipe. Sam dutifully stirring his worn pot, grumbling about the lack of good ingredients in the wilderness. Gimli and Legolas bickering while Frodo watches them with a smile. Boromir laughing, congratulating Merry and Pippin on their fighting skills.

Their laughter pulls him from his musings, and he offers them a wry smile. “I suppose I should have added ‘kings’ to the list.”

“It’d take more than that to break _you_ , Aragorn!” Pippin hoots, Merry nodding his agreement, before they both reach down to help pull him to his feet.

Arwen is waiting for them when they return to Meduseld, and Pippin declares that she truly _is_ the fairest creature in Middle Earth. While Aragorn agrees, he suspects it has less to do with his wife’s beauty, and more to do with the fact that she’s managed to procure a veritable feast for the Hobbits in their absence.

“Truly of the Valar!” Pippin crows around a mouth of food. “The fairest, the loveliest, the most wonderful--”

“Best not let Gimil hear you, Pippin,” Merry chuckles, “he threatened Eomer with his axes for not agreeing that Lady Galadriel was the fairest.”

Arwen muffles her laughter behind her hand, leaning her chin on Aragorn’s shoulder. “I trust your venture went well?”

“I think Rohan will be spared the loss of any other valuable artifacts.”

A loud clang--the sound of Pippin’s nearly full wine goblet hitting the ground--follows his words.

Arwen does not try to suppress her laughter, this time.

 

* * *

**IV. Eomer Eadig, King of Rohan, & Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth**

* * *

Arwen has never been young and in love.

Well, she has been young, and in love, but not all at once. The idea is a daunting one: she suspects that if she had met Aragorn while still in her youth, her feelings for him would have simply overwhelmed her, confused her.

Much like they are doing to her companion.

Lothiriel of Dol Amroth _is_ young, even by the standards of Men, and younger still to Arwen’s Elvish eyes. She is also intelligent, well-versed in the arts of healing, and kind, tempering her quick-wit with humor. Adored by her parents, sheltered by her brothers, held in the highest regard by Faramir, it is clear that she is not accustomed to the attentions of Men, let alone the kind of attention she is currently receiving.

“He has already called her _brynhitu cwen_ three times this evening,” Aragorn groans.

Arwen arches an eyebrow at that. The language of Rohan is not as familiar to her as it is to her husband, but she can assume the name the _King_ of Rohan is currently leveling at the Gondorian princess is less than flattering.

“Prickly princess,” Aragorn translates, rubbing at his temples. “He is lucky that none of her brothers know what he is saying.”

“I think he should be more concerned that Lothiriel may want a translation,” she answers.

That makes Aragorn smile. “I cannot understand him. For all his claims to think poorly of her, there is no other woman he has shown even half as much interest in.”

“She is much the same,” Arwen agrees. “She calls him insufferable, and then makes sure to place herself in his path as much as possible.”

Aragorn shakes his head. “I am loathe to call either Eomer or Lothiriel a fool, but if they think they are fooling anyone but themselves, they are sadly mistaken.”

Arwen squeezes his hand. “We cannot judge them, Aragorn. I recall I was very good at talking myself out of the idea of being in love with you.”

He snorts. “Yes, much too good at that. Years of my life, wasted--”

She elbows him, sharply, and he chuckles, kissing her knuckles in apology. A sudden movement from across the room claims both of their attention: Lothiriel has just stepped closer to Eomer, sticking a finger dangerously close to his face, clearly arguing some point or another. Eomer glares down at her, but the blush in both of their cheeks is apparent, though Arwen supposes many watching would attribute it to irritation.

Aragorn groans again. “This will be more difficult than I thought.”

Arwen eyes the pair again. They are oblivious to all around them, even Faramir and Eowyn’s exasperated expressions, the grin on Imrahil’s face, the coins being exchanged between Merry, Pippin, and Gimli. They are wholly focused on each other, argument aside.

“Perhaps not,” she says.

* * *

 

Eomer, she suspects, will be more difficult. The young King of Rohan is loyal, brave, and strong. And stubborn as a mule, as Aragorn has pointed out on multiple occasions.

Lothiriel nearly equals him in stubbornness, but she is younger, and has been spared many of the worst sights of the War. In her, Arwen thinks she can do the most good.

Though it is easier, of course, to interfere with both at the same time.

That is why she asks Lothiriel about potential suitors, forcing herself not to laugh as the younger woman splutters, blushes, too embarrassed to be aware of the large amount of ale Eomer has just nearly choked on.

This is why she encourages Eowyn’s plan to insist on their friend dressing in the Rohirric style for the coronation feast, and just barely succeeds in hiding her grin behind Aragorn’s shoulder when Eomer nearly walks into a beam upon seeing her, in a green dress and her hair flowing free.

This is why she offers Eomer likely unwelcome courting advice, ignoring her husband’s badly hidden smile as she does so.

But it works: they soften towards each other, carrying on entire conversations without raised voices, teasing each other without anger.

When Aragorn tells her that Eowyn has asked for Lothiriel to remain in Edoras, to help her prepare for her coming wedding in the spring, Arwen only smiles.

* * *

 

She does not see them together again until Eowyn and Faramir’s wedding, though the letters Aragorn has shared with her have been promising: Eomer is clearly smitten, whether he realizes it or not.

But something must have happened, between the last letter and Lothiriel’s return home to Dol Amroth two months prior, because they scarcely acknowledge one another. There is no bickering, no gentle teasing, just...no interaction at all, which worries her.

“Arwen, we cannot force them into anything,” Aragorn says, clearly reading her expression.

She frowns. “I do not force, I...lead.”

“You lead very forcefully sometimes, _a'maelamin_.”

At this, she raises an eyebrow. “And you do not?”

Aragorn can only grin, helplessly, and so she decides to let the matter rest. For now.

* * *

 

As it happens, she does not have to force anyone to do anything. Or even do much leading. She is in the stables, the morning before Eowyn and Faramir are due to be wed, when Lothiriel appears, clearly restless.

“Oh!” She cries in surprise, upon spotting Arwen. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lady--”

“You have not disturbed me,” Arwen interrupts, “for it is always a pleasure to share the stables with a friend.”

Lothiriel smiles, though it is not so wide and genuine as her normal expression. “I could not agree more.”

She moves to the stable housing her own horse and begins quietly brushing its flank. Sensing that the younger woman wants to be alone, Arwen murmurs a gentle goodbye before making her way back towards the royal apartments.

In the second ring of the city, she is nearly bowled over by a flustered looking Eomer. “Oh, _helle_ \--forgive me, my lady, I did not know look where I was going--”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she says, patting his arm. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Eomer?”

He grimaces. “Some of the ladies of Minas Tirith invited me to listen to music. I do not think it is something I would enjoy.”

“And so you decided to find another pursuit. Perhaps a ride across the fields of Pelennor instead?” She offers. “The stables were mostly empty when I left them.”

Aragorn would frown at her, most likely, but Aragorn is still abed, taking advantage of his Steward’s impending nuptials to take a morning off.

“Yes,” Eomer is saying, “that sounds much more suitable.”

He bows absentmindedly at her before hurrying down the nearest stairs.

While no doubt his horse awaits him in the stables, a diversion of a different sort will hopefully claim his attention first.

Arwen is still smiling when she returns to hers and Aragorn’s rooms.

Her husband wisely chooses not to comment on this.

* * *

 

“You have done something,” Aragorn says, his hand rough and warm and familiar under hers as they spin around Ithilien’s hall. “I do not know what, only that you have.”

Arwen blinks at him, feigning innocence. “I do not know what you mean.”

Over his shoulder, she can just make out where Eomer and Lothiriel themselves are dancing--the princess is entirely dwarfed by the king’s larger frame, but what she can see of Lothiriel’s face is flushed and happy.

Eomer too, looks pleased, veering occasionally into something very near joy.

“Oh, thank Vana,” Eowyn mutters from nearby. “I thought I was going to have to resort locking them in a closet!”

“Not a closet,” Arwen answers, offering the newly-wed couple a radiant smile. “Just a stable.”

Faramir and Eowyn laugh even as Aragorn groans.

“You did ask me to find a hobby,” she reminds him, and is rewarded promptly with a kiss.

 

* * *

**+1.  Eldarion, Prince of the Reunited Kingdom**

* * *

 

Eldarion truly is his father’s son.

Of all of their children, it’s he that resembles Aragorn the most--the same nose, the same expressive eyes, the same quirk of his mouth when he tries--and fails--to hide a smile.

Still, there are...more troubling similarities.

Arwen knows the look on his face better than anyone. A similar one had been directed her way for nearly thirty years, after all.

She nudges her husband, offering him a soft smile when he gives her a querulous look. There is more grey at his temples than ever, but he is still her Estel, her Aragorn, despite how their daughters tease him for looking more old-man-like, next to her smooth complexion.

“I know that look,” he murmurs, low enough for just her ears. “Something has amused you, _a'maelamin_.”

“Your son,” Arwen answers.

Aragorn follows her gaze, finally finding Eldarion perched on a bench at the table housing the royal family of Rohan. Their son is currently staring dazedly at the long waterfall of blonde hair falling around Frida’s shoulders as she laughs at something Lothiriel says to her. As a granddaughter of the King and Queen of the Mark, Frida is a true beauty, kind and gracious, with more than a little of the passion and enthusiasm for life so prevalent in her mother’s line.

She is also five and ten, a full eight years older than their starry-eyed son.

“Oh,” he says.

“Mm,” She hums. “I suppose we must applaud Eldarion for his good taste.”

Aragorn chokes a laugh at that. “Somewhere, your father is laughing at me.”

It has been more than fifty years since his departure to Undying Lands, and Arwen still misses him. She will always miss him--but now, watching her poor, smitten son making moon eyes at a Princess of the Riddermark, she cannot regret her choice.

“Likely so,” she agrees, fitting her fingers around Aragorn’s, and smiling when he squeezes back. 

* * *

 

“I am going to marry her, Naneth,” Eldarion declares on the walk back to the royal apartments.

His sisters--all older than Frida, and two married already--had been mortified enough when she had announced her pregnancy, eight years before, and seem even more mortified now.

“She is Elswyth’s daughter,” Caewen, their eldest, groans, as if Eldarion is not aware of such a thing. Arwen can understand her embarrassment; she and Elswyth were born only a few years apart, and she herself has children older than her brother.

“And she is already nearly a woman grown,” declares Thalanith, also married with children--though not so old as Caewen’s. “She has no shortage of more...age-appropriate suitors.”

“Besides,” Olthriel adds, with the smug wisdom of a teenager, “She will not see you as anything other than a little boy for years yet, Eldarion.”

Aragorn has remained silent throughout this exchange, though Arwen suspects he is scarcely holding back laughter based on the shaking of his shoulders.

The scowl Eldarion sends his sisters is truly magnificent. “Ada married Naneth! And she is older than him!”

Arwen cannot help but laugh at the sheer understatement of her son’s words. More than 2000 years stood between her birth and Aragorn’s. She can see that in Eldarion’s mind, the measly count of eight between his and Frida’s is not nearly as daunting.

“That is not the same thing!” Olthriel cries. “Ada, tell him, that is not--”

Aragorn is no longer able to suppress his laughter, slumping against the nearest wall as he does so. Caewen looks somewhat amused herself, and Thalanith has a look of exasperation on her face so reminiscent of Arwen’s own father that she soon joins her husband in his amusement.

Eldarion’s frown, however, has not disappeared.

“I will marry her!” He says again. “Just like Ada and Naneth, or Luthien and Beren!”

“Ah,” Aragorn says finally, bending down to put his hands on Eldarion’s shoulders. “But what if she should not want to marry you?”

Eldarion blinks, clearly not having considered this. “Well...I know her favorite color! And she likes horses, and sweetcakes, and queek. I am the Crown Prince of the Reunited Kingdoms! Isn’t...isn’t that enough?”

“It is a good start,” Arwen says gently.

“But she is more than her favorite color, Eldarion, and certainly more than her title as princess,” Aragorn adds.

“Oh,” says Eldarion. “But...how did you win Naneth, Ada?”

“Through many, many years of embarrassing myself,” he admits, drawing laughs from all three of their daughters and Arwen herself. “And then a few when I realized your mother was more than a beautiful dream. She was not Luthien reborn; she was herself. Worthy of knowing, of understanding, even if she did not choose me.”

Arwen cannot help bending to press a kiss to his cheek. Her Estel. Still so romantic, after all of these years. “I would have chosen no other,” she says, for just his ears. Lifting her face, she meets Eldarion’s eyes. “I wish you luck and joy, my son,” she says, reaching out to cup his still soft cheek in her hand. “But remember: you are young yet. There is time to earn Frida’s affections, if you can, but there is also time for her to give them to someone else. Would you respect that?”

Eldarion’s nod is quick and honest. She is so very proud of him, their sweet boy. “Yes, Naneth. I would respect any choice she makes.”

“Thank the Valar for that,” Olthiriel grumbles, giving his hair a ruffle. “Mayhaps you do have a chance after all, little brother.”

Arwen suspects her daughter is being insincere, but wisely chooses not to comment when Eldarion’s face brightens.

“Your son,” she says to Aragorn, later, curled against his side.

“Our son,” he retorts, groaning when she pinches him.

* * *

 

Ten years later, Arwen can only press her face into Aragorn’s shoulder as Eldarion drops into a sweeping bow in front of a somewhat dazed Frida.

Eomer--grey-haired, but as tall as ever--gapes openly in surprise. Lothiriel, however, looks less than shocked. “I knew all of those letters were not only about Rohan’s livestock,” she mutters. “Frida would never have blushed so over _cows_.”

“Your son,” Aragorn sighs, clearly resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose when Eldarion kisses the back of Frida’s hand.

“Our son,” Arwen counters. “As I recall, you were the one who gave him the instruction manual on how to court reluctant maidens.”

“What?” Croaks Eomer at the same time that Aragorn scoffs, “Reluctant?”

Eldarion and Frida whirl past them, both grinning madly.

For once, Arwen suspects she and Aragorn will not have to intervene.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you write serious LOTR fics, and sometimes you write stuff like this. Also Tolkien and I are going to have a come to Jesus moment in the afterlife, because there is literally no reason for:
> 
> 1) Elvish pregnancies lasting a FULL YEAR (poor Arwen) 
> 
> and 2) for Aragorn and Arwen to have Eldarion in F.A. 47. Which is. Literally nearly 50 years into their marriage. Keep in perspective that Faramir and Eowyn's son is in his 40's at this point. Just. What.


End file.
